I recently returned from visiting mom down south and I wanted to go back. I always enjoy our time together, esp. when we swim the ocean at sunset and long talks over the swell of waves.
I only stayed a few days to rush back and get a move on camper renovation stuff only to realize when I got back that it could have waited a bit longer. That time with family is so precious (and short on earth!) it ought to be a priority rather than something stored in-between things to do.
Next time I should remember to stop and ask myself:
*Do I really need to do this thing and put off extra time spent with mom?”
Had I paused my mind and asked this I would have stayed.
Once again this speaks to cultivating awareness and not mindlessly rushing to and fro.
Awareness lost is time lost.
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I ran into a regular at the local pool I frequent (’tis wonderful relief after those long, hot hikes) and we started talking for the first time. In the past all I knew of her was her friendly smile and wave.
It was fascinating. The more we talked the more I learned about her — her identity was unfolding itself in the eye of my mind. The things we told each other of our adventures and life, etc. all in a span of a few minutes was amazing and a reminder that we all have stories to tell and share.
That those we see across the room and don’t know have untold depths of layers far more than we could ever imagine. That what we see is only a tiny fragment of who they really are.
Books. We’re all unopened books stuffed with chapters of life within. When we open our bookselves to each other we’re forever enriched.
Oh the stories we could tell…
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When I was first walloped by Lyme disease, my beard rapidly turned white.
A few years later when I had COVID (mild, even) white streaks started appearing in what’s left of my red hair.
It’s so strange to witness visible changes like that. And how aging sneaks up on you.
I always thought it’d be more gradual and maybe it is but when your body undergoes major shocks everything is thrown out of whack.
So when I see my hair I’m reminded of those fallen trees whose rings share tales of moments of trauma over their long years.1
In my case my “tree rings” will probably disappear over time given my family’s genetic penchant for baldness ; )↩︎
What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breach of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is in the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself at sunset. — Crowfoot Blackfeet
Torture test passed, Substacking Dad, newsletter gentrification
The last couple of days I’ve taken longer hikes in the middle of the day’s heat as a bit of a torture test to see if my body could handle it like it used to in those good ole pre-Lyme days.
To my somewhat surprise, it did just fine other than my knees being a bit sorer than usual from not being used to that pace.
I’m cautiously encouraged by this. It’s my goal to get back to being able to hike around ten miles in a day. That’s where the best, secret places are to enjoy!
I’ve found protein has a big impact on how far I can go. In the past it didn’t matter but post-Lyme it makes all the difference for some reason. My internal battery has changed — it runs out faster if I don’t store up some energy (protein!) in advance before a long hike.
It’s change I can live with as long as I remember to chow down a bit before doing anything physically rigorous.1
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I’ve been working on setting up a Substack newsletter for my dad. He’s retired but his financial analyst mind is as sharp as ever and he has that itch to keep sharing his knowledge so I’m going to help him scratch it.
Through a brilliant computer program friend of his, he’s built several sophisticated computer models that track the economy, markets, etc. It’s deep shit — enough so that the Federal Reserve tried to hire him at one point (he choose to stay independent).2
While I have issues with Substack, it’s perfect for folks like my Dad who are not computer experts. It’s simple and easy to use with everything baked in.
When it goes live I’ll shout it out here for those of you who might be interested. It’s gonna be an interesting ride.
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Speaking of Substack, my issue is how they are gentrifying the newsletter industry. Newsletters are all starting to look the same… and read the same.
It’s almost robotic — as if writers are churning stuff out by following some sort of Substack formula and forced writing by schedule (“oh it’s Tuesday I gotta shove something out so my readers don’t forget me!”).
By the time I’ve read several newsletters in the e-mail they’ve all bled together as if written by the same voice with no stand-out or personality. And with the same graphics, styles, etc. it’s even harder to stick out like a sore thumb.
So it’s gotten boring.
I wonder if it’s a catch-22 when they all have the same look and feel does it make them think and write the same via some sort of “path to success” conformity?
Don’t get me wrong - there’s quite a few excellent newsletters and writers I subscribe to there but these days it’s the exception rather than the rule. 3
BTW I’ve noticed those who blog (esp. for a good while) are the better newsletter writers. Probably because they’re treating them like blogs!
I have yet to find a protein bar that doesn’t taste like artificial plastic-y sugar. Why are they so sweet anyway?↩︎
Dad’s had his own clients for a long time - he’s where I got my entrepreneurial spirit from.↩︎
I’m aware I’m probably coming across as a hypocrite by putting my dad on Substack lol.↩︎
While down south visiting mom, I go for a ritual walk in my old neighborhood through a local museum’s grounds towards the waterfront to chill and read a book.
The moment I stroll onto the grounds, I’m confronted by a security guard whizzing up on a golf cart.
He tells me I must leave the property and enter through their main entrance a half a mile away. And that I have to check in at their front desk.
I’m momentarily befuddled — in all my decades of being here there’s never been an issue walking through the museum’s sprawling backyard. I tell him I’m halfway to the main entrance so I’ll continue there and do the thing he wants.
He shakes his head no, tells me I must backtrack all the way back out and then loop around to the “official” entrance on the street.
It’s hot and I think he’s being entirely unreasonable so I tell him don’t be silly and that I’ll keep going the way I’ve been going. I blow him off and walk away, leaving him idling in his cart.
I think he too was befuddled by my act of resistance since he didn’t chase after and mow me down. Or maybe it was his youth dealing with a recalcitrant older man like myself?
At any rate, I make it across the grounds to their entrance, grab a coffee from their cafe and make my way to the waterfront. Another guard (in a golf cart, of course) stops me and says I must pay and wear a band. Ugh.
I ask him what’s changed, that all these years the grounds were open to everyone. He says, “COVID.”
I get the change part… but Covid while outdoors on these huge grounds with most people inside the museum? He shrugs as if to say, it is what it is. I tilt my head in reply as if to say don’t bullshit me, it’s about money.
Silent comms completed, I shrug, turn and make my way back out of the museum grounds per the guard’s request and detour to the nearby college which also has a waterfront and is mercifully open to all still.
I make it to the promised ocean, sink into a lawn chair by the water and let out a long exhale. It’s beautiful with salty breezes wafting in and a light drizzle from the skies to calm my spirit.
But I can’t find peace. I’m bothered. Yes, a bit by getting kicked out of my lifelong “backyard” at the museum that I’d always roamed freely before.
Yet I’m bothered more by how I responded to the young security guard. He was just doing his job and had nothing to do with the museum’s change of policy. I’m unsettled and can’t meditate or read or write.
I pick my stuff up and make my way back to the museum. I stop at the entrance to my now prohibited shortcut and look down the side road where the guards usually patrol. I see the kid way down at the end and wave my arms at him to come.
He hesitates and doesn’t budge. He’s probably wondering what the crazy old dude wants now.
I wave again more emphatically (and friendlily) trying to appear as unthreatening as possible.
After a moment’s pause he starts up the cart and warily rolls my way. As he gets close, I make a conciliatory gesture with my hands and say I’ve been thinking of how I acted towards him and I wanted to apologize.
I tell him I know he was just doing his job and it wasn’t his fault changes were made. And that I was being a cranky old coot.
His body language visibly relaxes. “I really appreciate you saying that, thank you so much!”
I smile, he smiles, and we bump fists and part ways with peace in our hearts.
NOTETOSELF: Don’t start becoming that old coot you swore you’d never be.
The last year saw me finding a place I really enjoyed but then realizing it could also not be some concept of home. Because I am basically homeless. […] I had felt that perhaps, just perhaps, Mexico or Costa Rica or Panama could become something to replace it. They cannot. For many reasons I have elaborated on the blog before. I am not made to be tied down, settled, or feel like I have ties to some place.
It’s true — once you become a wanderer it gets into your blood and it’s nigh impossible to get it out of you.
When you’re called to it, you gotta go or your soul suffers. I’ve mentioned before how I thought I was absolutely nutso to give up a beloved cabin of mine on a beautiful river in a fairly remote location in Florida. But my soul left the place and it was time to go.
I struggled mightily to follow. For a while I sat on the fence of keeping the cabin as a home base for my wanderings but it didn’t feel right — I felt I needed to be completely untethered. Knowing I had a home to go back to wouldn’t be as pure or as true.
My mom’s the one who pushed me off the fence when I shared my struggle of letting go. She reminded me of how in the past I expressed my desire to be completely free and wander the world. And how lit up I was when I spoke of it.
She woke me up.
So I gave up the cabin, hit the road and haven’t looked back.
It was fulfilling a life purpose I didn’t know I had until I took off and it changed me deeply.
And now I can’t go back.
At least not for a good long while. Wanderlust is in my DNA now. I feel uneasy when there’s a roof over my head. My spirit is cramped in buildings or cities. I need to be in a world where nature is my living room - and like nature, a constantly changing one.
This is why I — and others — wander. Not because we’re lost but because we’re following our souls.
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Further up on his blog, Mike wrote about some difficulties with a mutual lover and I’m drawn back to talking about love.
That’s sometimes life as a full blooded wanderer… Love is sometimes elusive or hard to keep because we’re always on the move. Change is our landscape.
It takes a different kind of soul to love a wanderer because we need freedom and space - always (and even if you wander with us, we’ll still need our space).
It doesn’t mean we can’t love deeply, indeed our love for the world and the beauty we see everywhere makes it even more so.
But there are times we must love from afar and not everyone can handle that.
A past love of mine used to tell me I was too solitary. She’d also call me her lone wolf.
I would have loved being her lone wolf, but the thing is… Lone wolves don’t belong to anyone. We belong to the soul of the world we roam upon.
